


What Do You Do With The Threads of An Old Life

by ThymeTraveler



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Time Travel, Angst, Female Bilbo, Galadriel is a troll, Gandalf won't know what hit him, Gen, Grief, Screaming, Time Travel, bilbo is not amused, one-shot for now
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-09-08
Updated: 2015-04-07
Packaged: 2018-02-16 14:23:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,962
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2273106
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThymeTraveler/pseuds/ThymeTraveler
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bilbo sails to the Shores of Valinor and thinks her adventures have come to an end. The Valar beg to differ.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Back Again

“Now what?”

“I do not know, o Perrienath. You are the first such mortal allowed to reach these shores.”

“I am very tired, it’s been a long journey. My one last adventure.”

“I would not say that, my friend. Who among us knows what may happen in the future.”

“My Lady Galadriel, you are being deliberately obtuse. Almost as obtuse as Gandalf! And he speaks in riddles!”

“I have not the slightest idea what you are talking about.”

“Very well, keep your secrets. But know this, o smug elf Queen, my revenge will be swift and merciless.”

“You are as frightening as a butterfly.”

“Thanks for that. A lovely complement on my size and competency.”

“All in good fun, my friend. All in good fun.”

“Alas, I really must rest, I can’t keep my eyes open any longer.”

“Sleep well, Mistress Baggins. I shall keep watch over you.”

 

Drifting in that haze between waking and sleep, Bilbo pondered her situation. Not a bad life overall, if she did say so herself. There were regrets, but no more than her due. Except for the obvious ones. Poor Frodo. Her dear poor Frodo, managing to save Middle Earth and Shire, but unable to enjoy it. 

She was somewhere soft and warm, could feel the aches and pains fading away. Not a bad life. She could almost hear Hamfast puttering in the garden… 

Except she wasn’t in the Shire and Hamfast hadn’t tended her garden in years. It had been handed over to Samwise ages ago. 

But wasn’t that Hamfast, whistling his favorite little nonsense ditty? 

Bilbo’s eyes snapped open. And nearly screamed. 

T he sun shone softly through the windows of her room in Bag End. It was early morning, and she had missed breakfast. 

The thought of missing breakfast struck her as impossibly, ridiculously funny. Unable to stifle the nearly hysterical giggles, she sat up and gazed around.  Was this to be her afterlife? An eternity of summer days in the Shire? For a bright shining moment, the prospect of it stretched on before her eyes.

No. 

Shaking herself, Bilbo gingerly pulled herself to the edge of the bed, her own little bed. Some exploration seemed to be in order. Couldn’t hurt either. To her great surprise, she felt no pain in her movements. Really looking at her hands, the skin was young and firm. Impossible… 

Nearly tripping in her haste, Bilbo scrambled for her vanity mirror. Stared in wonder. The hobbit staring back at her was pale with shock, but couldn’t be more than fifty years old. 

The old scar through her eyebrow, put there by a battle she’d rather forget, was missing. Many marks of a certain adventure were missing. 

It couldn’t be. It just couldn’t. 

The Valar would not be this cruel. Would not erase all badges of the life she had lived, the struggles she had overcome. Would not place her in this soft body used to comfort. 

This time, she did scream. A wild, grieving cry that startled the gardener out of his whistling. “Mistress Baggins! You all right?” 

A crash, several shrieks, and four slams later, a very young Hamfast Gamgee, barely halfway through his tweens, was transfixed. Caught by the haunted look in Bilbo Baggins’ eyes and her shaking hands on his shoulders. 

“What year is it? What month?” 

Hamfast blinked, the unusual rasp in her voice confusing him. “What?” 

Bilbo nearly shook the boy. “What. Year. Is. It.” 

“T-Thirteen f-forty one, A-April the f-first.” Great Yavanna, she had forgotten poor Hamfast’s stutter. It had taken years for the lad to overcome it. 

1341, 2194 T.A. outside the Shire. Great Mother’s Bounty, they had sent her back. Nothing had happened yet. Sweet Elbereth, _none of it had happened…_

The sheer enormity of her revelation was far too much for her untested body. Her eyes rolled back in her head, the shining world of her past went black, and Bilbo knew no more. 

Again, she drifted. Thoughts flickering past and then whispers interrupted her spiraling mind, dragging her back to the surface. 

“And she just fainted?” 

“Yessir. Passed clean out, after she heard the date. Nearly frighted poor Hamfast to death. Came running home, shouting that Bilbo Baggins was dying and he was next.” Holman, that was Old Holman. Another ghost from her past. She moved her head towards his voice. 

“Whoops, here she comes. There you are, Bilbo. You just gave your neighbors quite the scare.” 

“What happened?” Her voice croaking and her head pounding, Bilbo gingerly tried to sit up, only to be gently pushed back into the pillows. 

“Ah-ah-ah, you hit your head quite badly when you fainted. Young Hamfast didn’t have the wherewithal to catch you at that moment.” 

Of course she had fainted. Of all the stupid, idiotic, _useless_ things she could have done, she had fainted.

“Rest and food, the best remedy. Take it easy the next couple days, y’hear?” 

“Yes, thank you Doctor.” 

“See that she does, Jethro Holman. Can’t have the Old Took’s favorite Grandchild fallen sick now, can we?” 

Bilbo suddenly realized who the other hobbit was. “Isengrim.” 

“Y’see, she’s already remembering. Very good, cousin. Take care of that noggin, it’s not every day I just happen to be in Hobbiton.” 

Seized with a fierce desire for kin, even some as distantly related as Isengrim Brandybuck, Bilbo forced her eyes open completely, ignoring the sting of the bright light outside her eyelids. “Isengrim, how long are you in Hobbiton?” 

“Och, several days, I should expect. Old Godo Proudfoot’s gout is acting up again, and Leyla’s called for an expert, since Geordie Bracegirdle gets squeamish at a blister. Why the boy ever went into the medical profession, I’ll never know. Why do you ask, Cousin?” 

Bilbo swallowed against a dry throat. “Could we perhaps- I thought that- Since you will be here several days-” 

“Easy now, cousin. Take a breath, begin again.” 

“Would you like to have tea? Tomorrow?” 

Isengrim’s grin warmed her to the core. “Of course, Bilbo. I shall look forward to it.” Bilbo returned the grin, plans already forming in her head. 

This time, things would be different. This time, she would be _ready_. 

Three weeks later, Bilbo took a deep steadying breath and stepped out her door. It was indeed a good morning, and now all she had to do was wait for that old coot of a wizard to actually show up.


	2. Maps and Plans

Not all of her memories were clear, those last few years of her first life – and wasn’t that a confounding thing, her _first_ life – the last few years before she sailed across the sea were mostly blurs and small scenes of delicacy and final goodbyes.

The important things, those she would never forget. She had a chance, a ridiculous, whispering chance to change what had gone wrong, to prevent many evils. She just needed to plan carefully and well.

Her first measure, taken merely three days after returning to the past, was to write out an air-tight will that ensured that Bag-End would be cared for by the right people. She remembered the tragedy of Drogo and Primula that had given Frodo into her keeping, and as much as she would never regret taking the lad in, she preferred that he grow up with his proper parents. Thus, as of the event of her death, Bag-End was signed over to Drogo and Primula, with a special stipulation that they must never go boating again.

(She did remember Frodo once telling her of a battle in Hobbiton, but she had been in her dotage and the details were more than a little fuzzy. Hopefully, her actions would also prevent this vague premonition of danger over the Shire that prodded at her every time she looked at the Party Tree.)

Isengrim and Hob witnessed the will, and the Gamgees were shocked to say the least about being remembered in the will. Bilbo wanted to ensure they were looked after, for good gardeners were worth their weight in gold, she said. Her companions did not disagree, and thus did not question it.

Then Bilbo took a short holiday in Tookborough with Isengrim and the rest of her extended family. Many tales were spun and advice given. Two weeks she spent tramping about, regaining her walking legs and learning to ride a pony again. She got a lot of funny looks, and her cousins were constantly tittering about her sudden change in attitudes.

Bilbo steadfastly ignored them.

Her actions were the talk of the Shire. Many whispered that Bilbo Baggins had finally cracked and let her Took side out. Said she was showing her true colors at last, just like her wild mother. None said these things to her face, as the favorite granddaughter of the Old Took, she did have some protection against the gossip. It helped that the Brandybucks and the Tooks adored the fact that she finally seemed to be showing some real spirit.

When she wasn’t tramping about Buckland, she spent hours pouring over maps and diagrams of Middle Earth, plotting safe paths and escape routes.

Bilbo knew these things: She needed to get through the Quest safely, make sure the lads and Th- the rest of the Company made it through the Battle, and then she could sneak away and make damned sure that the One Ring never made it to Frodo’s hands. She didn’t care one way or another about the rest of the histories. She just knew this was something she had to do, whether or not she died in the doing.

She returned to Hobbiton, promptly told Lobelia to go suck an egg and began to prepare Bag End.

Being pragmatic, she thought. Realistic, she told herself. Her nightmares told a different story, returning with a vengeance like they hadn’t had since 2195. The years after the Battle were difficult to sleep the whole night through. The first time. Good Grief, she would never get used to this.

It seemed that difficulty had returned with a vengeance.

Frodo, fallen in Mordor with his throat ripped out and the Ring on its Master’s hand.

Gandalf, pale and trembling, cut down by the black riders.

Aragorn, face down in a pool of blood in a burning city.

Arwen, still and grey on her couch in the failing light, no heart-beat to be found.

The Company, struck down in the night, no warning, dying where they slept.

Balin, Ori, Oin, killed in Khazad Dum as drums thundered in her ears.

 _Fili_ , blue eyes wide and staring, telling them to run, begging them even as he died in vain.

 _Kili_ , flat on his back with a spike through his belly.

_Thorin, telling her he wished to part in friendship as she begged him to hold on._

Her mind added to the torrent of misery, but she fought it as best she could. Plans, simple ones. Too complex and they were doomed to fail. As long as she was prepared, she could get through. After all, she was a Took and a Baggins, was she not?

Get them to the mountain in one piece, again. Somehow, somehow prevent Thorin from falling to the gold sickness. Stop the Battle. Go to Mordor.

Sticking point number one: Gandalf. Should she tell him? Tell him she had memories of a life already lived?

She hemmed and hawed for days, almost two weeks before she made the decision.

Gandalf needed to know. Lord Elrond needed to know. Lady Galadriel needed to know. The sooner the better.

With the day of the now expected party fast approaching, Bilbo sent off a letter to Rivendell, introducing herself to the lord and requesting an audience when she arrived in several weeks. Three days. Gandalf would arrive in three days.


End file.
